How I Became Me

It has occurred to me that the number of people who may remember Brooklyn in the 1950s is a shrinking population. Even if they were there, getting older is no friend of memory. I started out writing this blog mainly so my children and grandchildren might know what life was like back in the day. I have been pleasantly surprised by the comments I receive from people who are total strangers, but who want to let me know that they were there too and share some of my recollections. I have acquired a new friend, Joe, who lived around the corner from me and shared my experiences growing up before his family moved to the wilds of Long Island. He writes his own funny and sometimes poignant blogs that I read with great pleasure. DelBloggolo

A typical day for a Brooklyn kid was relatively simple and uncomplicated. We woke up, went to school, and then out to play. Weekends were pretty much the same, minus school and including a Sunday dinner with the family and whoever might be visiting. Mom always made a big pot of "gravy" with enough meatballs, sausage and braciole to feed any drop-ins. Often our upstairs tenants, my cousins, would stop down, if not for dinner, then for coffee and cake. The routine became so familiar to me that I never realized its value. That time spent with my family, the table conversations I only half-listened to, the arguments that grew loud when the battling Caruso side of the family visited, all of that exposure to people and ideas, helped make me who I am today.

My family values, politics, religion, views of people and of life all were being formed over stuffed manicotti or pork-in-the gravy. My empty head was being filled up with street smart, Italian-flavored philosophy. Unfortunately, that also included misinformation and worse, prejudice, traces of which I carry to this day. My Dad was often at the center of these discussions, never bashful about voicing his opinion, especially after a few Rheingold beers had loosened his tongue. My Uncle Joe and Aunt Mae were like Ali-Frazier; even sober they were combative, but homemade wine brought out the worst in them. Sometimes my sister and I would scurry under the table to get away from the hostilities. In the midst of this sat my mother, smiling, rarely speaking except occasionally trying  to negotiate a cease fire.

One of the reasons I value humility so much is because it is the single quality that defined my mother's life. I never heard her brag once in spite of doing one hell of a job raising the three of us. She never spoke ill of anyone, and would even go out of her way to offer a kind word on behalf of some absent soul  being castigated by the family between the fruit platter and the cannolis. I know in my heart that any goodness in me came from her. She had a hard life but rose above it. Each day she quietly went about her business of running the house, managing on a meager budget, and making it all look so easy that we foolishly took it for granted. Of course our meals would always be on the table, our clothes pressed, and our rooms cleaned up. Mom took care of that.

I realize that this blog meandered a bit, but my main point was families play a big part in shaping our outlook on life. Despite the cacophony of noise and the plethora of opinions surrounding me (double points for using cacophony and plethora in the same sentence) my Mom Frances was like a beacon of quiet goodness in my life. I wish I could be more like her.

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Christmas Shopping

Well it's that time again...Black Friday...only worse. At least the stores used to wait until midnight of Thanksgiving Day to admit the hoards of lunatics who lined up at their doors waiting to get trampled to death. Now they are opening at 8 pm on Thanksgiving night. God forbid their customers and employees have a full day to be with their families and celebrate being together. This is a spectacle that really sickens me. Instead of encouraging people to give thanks for what they have, they are urged to go out and get more. As far as I know, this execrable tradition is uniquely American. Maybe we have too much and need to stop and consider why we feel so compelled to spend money we don't have on stuff we don't need.

Shopping has come a long way since the 1950s. Malls didn't exist. There were "downtown" areas in every town that featured one or two department stores like Kresge's or Sears...Macy's if it was an upscale town.  These stores would decorate their windows to lure shoppers inside. In New York, Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy's in Herald Square and Abraham and Strauss in Brooklyn were famous for their holiday windows. The stores were decorated with trees (before they became politically incorrect) and festooned with garlands and giant Christmas balls. They also featured elaborate Santa's Workshops where kids bundled in snowsuits would wait in line to tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas and have their pictures taken. The scenes in the movie "A Christmas Story" where little Ralphie and his family visit Higbee's Department Store got it exactly right.

I find it interesting that 1950s kids believed in Santa Claus for so long compared to today's kids who mostly pretend just to ensure their gifts appear under the tree. We really didn't have a lot, and we needed the hope that a magical fat man in a red suit might bring the things we so badly wanted, even though we knew our parents couldn't afford them. Oh sure, we had doubts, but wanted to dream that we had a shot at that big Erector Set or the snazzy Shwinn bike we would eye greedily in the store window. We would diligently make up our Christmas gift list, putting the thing we wanted most on top, double-underlined. We wished we could pool the money that well-meaning aunts would spend on practical things like clothes and books, and use it to buy the Red Ryder BB Gun that every boy wanted but knew in his heart he never could have.

In our neighborhood, a lot of shopping was done locally. We had a Woolworths, a John's Bargain Store, Vim Furniture,  and all the stores along Pitkin Avenue. There were shoe stores like Thom McAn, Buster Brown, and A.S. Beck (where Tony Boots worked part time), McCrory's Department Store and clothing stores like Moe Ginsberg's and Abe Stark (who gave away free suits to any ballplayer who hit their outfield sign in Ebbets Field). Downtown Brooklyn was another shopper's mecca with A&S, Mays, Martins (where the lovely Jasmine worked in the bridal department after school) and a new chain, E.J. Korvette's. There was no online shopping, no gift cards, and no credit cards...just cash or a check if you were well off enough to have an account.

These are wonderful memories for me. If you've seen the movie "A Christmas Story" (soon to open on Broadway by the way) you will know exactly what my holidays were like. Those times with family and friends will stay with me no matter how much more senile I may get.

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People

I mentioned in my last post, which I wrote just before the lights went out for 9 days, that I remembered snow storms better than hurricanes. Obviously that has now changed. Sandy made a believer out of me...hurricanes beat snowstorms, hands down. People who live in hurricane-prone areas are gluttons for punishment. If you have to keep a supply of plywood in your garage to board up the windows once or twice a year, you might want to think about relocating. We never saw hurricanes in 1950s Brooklyn...even they were afraid to come into the neighborhood. I was trying desperately to think of a way to link Hurricane Sandy to the theme of this blog and I think I found it; the essential goodness of people. 

I am so proud to see the way 99% of Staten Islanders and others in hard hit storm areas are stepping up to help their fellow man in any way they can. Volunteers are everywhere, handing out food, cleaning up debris, directing traffic, and maybe just letting a total stranger cry on their shoulder. Restaurants are giving away free meals, stores are donating clothing, cleaning materials, power outlets to charge cellphones, or just a place to stay warm for an hour or two. There are a few world class a-holes engaging in looting, but they pale in comparison to the brave and good deeds performed everywhere you look. This goodness is what I remember about the people I grew up around in the East New York section of Brooklyn.

It was common on my block for people to help each other. Men would do things like shovel the walks of older neighbors, or get together for a "painting party" when an apartment needed a fresh coat. My father Tony was not big on painting and would often ask our next door neighbor, Frank, to "help" him. Frank was a prince of a guy and wound up doing most of the painting while my Dad fetched the beer and talked about the Yankees. Women on the block were like Wardens: they kept an eye out for any kid who might think about doing something dumb, and chew the kid out, closing with the ultimate threat: "Don't make me tell your mother!" 

We had neighborhood cops, big, beefy Irishmen, that actually walked a beat. They knew us and we knew them. It never occurred to us to cross them because they were not reluctant to swipe that nightstick across your behind. Many store owners knew families on the block who struggled and always threw a few extra sliced baloney slices onto the pile knowing it might be someone's dinner. I've talked before about the baker who delivered fresh, hot bread to my wife's grandparents every day for two years after Grandpa got hurt and lost his job. He never asked for a cent. People in need would find canned soup or boxed cereal left in their milk boxes anonymously by neighbors who wanted to help without injuring anyone's pride.

Even us kids knew what it was to share, whether it was sports equipment, bicycles, roller skates or bringing someone home for lunch. Somehow our Moms always found a way to stretch a meal for one more. We would routinely go to the stores for seniors who couldn't go themselves, and we gallantly refused their offered nickel tips knowing they needed the money more than we did. If there was a death in a family, enough hot dishes were brought to the house to feed that family for a month. We didn't think highly of ourselves for behaving this way, its just the way people grow up when they are surrounded by families barely eking things out.

The reaction of disaster-struck New Yorkers and New Jerseyans has been so different from the people in Louisiana hit by Hurricane Katrina. While I'm sure many people did what they could for neighbors, too many others stood by waiting for the government to come to their rescue. Good luck with that.

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